Ahem.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice just a bit too breathy.
“Helping you,” he says, pointing out the obvious. He dips his hands in my water, then puts them over my own on my lump of clay, adding gentle pressure as I try to remember what the hell Jeanette’s instructions were about beginning my piece.
“Is this you trying to reenactGhost?” I joke.
“If I were reenactingGhost, I’d be over there.” He jerks his head toward the space behind me. “Why, you trying to give me direction? I’m happy to move.”
I don’t reply. It’s too much. Far too much contact when I’m already awaiting the moment we’re on our own so I can kiss him again. It’s downright indecent, actually. We arein public.
I try to ignore it. This is fine. Normal date stuff. He’s being cute, and if I could just get over how turned on I’m becoming in reaction to absolutelynothing, I’d probably appreciate that he’s trying to save me from walking away from this date without any pieces I like.
He starts to add a little more pressure, holding my hands ever so slightly in place as he says, “You’re moving too fast. You’ll end up with uneven walls.”
Frowning, I ask, “Have you done this before? You sound like you’ve done this before.”
Alex shrugs and keeps working the clay. For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer me, but then he admits, “I watched a few YouTube tutorials, just to be safe.”
I’m so amused—and flattered—by how much effort he’s put into this date that I stop protesting and allow myself to enjoy working with him.
We spend the rest of class pressed against each other, him murmuringsmall tidbits of advice as we work, our hands constantly brushing. The smile doesn’t fade from my face the entire time, and even though I know he did most of the work, I come away feeling really proud.
Alex’s favorite restaurant in LA, it turns out, is a small diner in Van Nuys called Beeps. It’s got a…presence, might be the right word for it, with a pink-and-teal exterior and a big lit-up sign. The dining room is cozy, with 1950s- and 1960s-themed pictures lining the walls: James Dean, Marlon Brando, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, the Beatles.
It’s also packed. I catch a few people’s attention on me, and I can’t blame them. Despite having worn an apron the entire class, I have bits of dried clay all over myself. Even after attempting to clean up, I look like I just got done mud wrestling.
Alex, of course, looks flawless, not a speck of clay on him.
“What’s good?” I ask, staring up above the cash register at what might be the most extensive menu I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m overwhelmed by the sheer wealth of options.
“Everything’s good,” he replies. I level him with a glare becausenot helpful. “No, seriously. Everything’s good. You can’t go wrong.”
“You can’t possibly have tried everything. What doyouget?”
“Breakfast,” he says, likeduh. “It’s a diner.”
“It’s nine p.m.”
“Time doesn’t exist inside a diner,” he says seriously, as if the words are gospel.
We’re up. I wave him ahead.
“Anything else?” the cashier asks once he’s ordered.
“Whatever she’s getting,” he says, then steps aside. They both look at me expectantly, but when he notices my expression, Alex asks, “What?”
“Did you just get a Coke float withbreakfast?” I ask, not judging himbut, rather, in awe of his gall, his daring. His brilliance. I wouldneverthink to get a Coke float with breakfast.
“It’s nine p.m.,” he says defensively.
“I thought time didn’t exist inside a diner,” I throw back at him; then I turn to the cashier, smile, and say, “I’ll have exactly what he’s having.”
Alex pays. I don’t protest because right as I’m about to, I remember that I sunk all my money into Bitcoin.
God, I really need to get a job.
I follow Alex to one of the tables in the back of the dining area. We sit down, and I watch as Alex pulls out a Jolly Rancher and pops it into his mouth. I feel my jaw drop at the bizarreness of the act. Treatingcandy, of all things, like an appetizer.
